


Sam Knows

by pwk



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 02:02:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1840243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pwk/pseuds/pwk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam told Dean not to watch that movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sam Knows

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: Insert anywhere you might please
> 
> Disclaimer: All lies. I know nothing, I got nothing.
> 
> The movie: Frailty directed by Bill Paxton. Seen it? Love you. Haven't? Check it out.

The air is heavy when he wakes. Heart pounding, pulse racing. Lungs gasping for fresh air or a cool breeze. But there’s none to be had, only the same thick humid weight filled with the unmistakable scent of despair and loneliness that presses him back down onto the bed in the cheap rented room. It always smells the same. Different state, different town, different room. Always the same.

“I told you not to watch it.” 

Sam’s voice travels through the darkness and Dean turns his head to face him. Instinctively his body follows and the bed shifts, rolling them toward the middle, closer toward each other. Dean inhales and Sam’s smell, safe and familiar over the years, replaces the odor of bleach that rises from the sheets. 

“You were right.” Dean acknowledges. Breathless until Sammy reaches out and places one warm, large hand on his chest. Not moving, just resting there. Soothing. Everything slows for Dean. He can spare enough thought to resent that this time, Sam was right. And Dean wants to know why? Why would his baby brother know more than him, the older? That’s not how it’s supposed to work.

The images from his dream are still fresh in his mind. Sepia toned photographs. The open palm of the hand holding the rosary. The simple, framed house that just screamed rural and country. The sheriff, somber and stiff, faced with an evil he never wanted to know existed. And the boys. _God,_ the two boys.

“It’s just so similar, Sammy.” The old nickname slips out and his voice breaks on the last syllable. Memories mesh with dream images and it’s so damn hard to tell the difference. Dean hears a car door slam outside in the parking lot but it seems so far away.

“It’s not.” Sam corrects from the darkness and the soothing heat of the hand travels up Dean’s throat and cradles the side of his cheek. “It’s not even close.”

“It is.” Dean insists even as he turns his face into the hand, seeking the unspoken comfort. “Just imagine if Dad had gone that way. Religious fanatic instead of avenger. Just think of what we would have become.”

“Dad had rules. We had signs. It wasn’t like that.” Sam’s turn to shift, his broad shoulders, still a surprise every time Dean sees him like this, barely visible in the dim light of the clock radio. Dean knows his pupils are wide, black iris expanded over the green to be able to see Sam’s shadow in this darkness. “It’s not like that. That was only a movie, Dean.”

“The God’s Hand Killer.” Dean shivers, unwilling or unable to let go of his dream. “Which one of us would end up buried in the Rose Cemetery? Which one of us would follow in our father’s footsteps? Didn’t the two boys become the same thing?”

“Christ, Dean.” Sam’s voice, low and exasperated makes Dean shiver again. But it’s suddenly different. “This is why I told you not to stay up and watch the damn movie. I knew you wouldn’t be able to let it go. I thought I was supposed to be the sensitive one.”

“Things change.” Dean whispers. The images are receding, pushed back by the reality of his little brother stretched out on the bed beside him. Long and strong, skin hot and muscles scented with the musk of their earlier coupling.

“Yeah, yeah they do.” Just like always Sam’s radar has picked up on Dean’s change of mood. Sam knows what that means and Sam pushes up on the bed, his hand sliding on the worn cotton. But he catches himself and swings over to straddle Dean, his skin hotter, moister than the air, his weight heavier than the dream. But this time Dean can breathe.

Sam’s hands know just where and how to touch. Pressure here, a bit of pain there. Always knowing what Dean needs, always willing to give it. And as Sam’s mouth presses into his, opening and seeking - hot tongue chasing the secrets Dean gives up without question; Dean realizes why they won’t end up like the boys in the movie.

Unlike their real father, unlike the father in the movie, Sam is Dean’s religion. Not God or revenge. Sam is Dean’s reason for being and his object of worship. Each stroke of Sam’s hand is a sacrament and the fluids that spill into Dean’s mouth, salty hot and bittersweet are his communion.

Sweat slicks their skin together and Dean stretches and moans beneath his little brother, remembering their first touch and he’s thankful Sam was right, that Sam knew. And Dean no longer wonders why.


End file.
